


Love is a Battlefield

by Gigi_Sinclair



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 08:53:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19292407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigi_Sinclair/pseuds/Gigi_Sinclair
Summary: " Crowley looks out the window. “Forever can be a fucking long time, know what I mean?”Deirdre knows all right. She loves Arthur, that's never been in question, but the sheer grind of it, the banality of day after day spent with the same person, with the same peculiarities, having the same disagreements can wear you down. Does wear you down."





	Love is a Battlefield

Deirdre Young is fond of Crowley and Aziraphale. They're good for Adam. She read in the Guardian that it's important for children to have an array of grownups in their lives, and if Adam is gay, it will be especially lovely for him to have them to look up to and confide in when he's older. He already doesn't confide in her. 

They do tend to spoil him, though. 

“Please be careful, dear!” Deirdre calls, as Adam and his friends run off towards the fields with his latest gift. This time, it's a massive drone that looks more like something from a film about the American Air Force protecting the world from an alien attack than the little toy versions Adam has been gazing at longingly on Amazon. 

“He's fine,” Crowley assures her. 

“Don't worry,” Aziraphale adds. Deirdre would blame the laissez-faire in their voices on being childless, but Arthur says, “I've got a new bottle of Macallan single malt in, fancy a taste?” And all three of them go inside without a backwards glance. 

One aspect of their friendship is slightly unsettling to Deirdre: she can't for the life of her remember how she and Arthur know them. Since Crowley and Aziraphale are adults, obviously they are their friends rather than Adam's, but beyond that, it's a blank. Was one of them at school with her, or with Arthur? Are they former colleagues? It would be unconscionably rude to admit it at this stage, so she doesn't, but she simply has no clue where they came from. It seems silly to ask Arthur. He doesn't appear to have any doubts, at least none he's voiced to her, so Deirdre keeps her mouth shut. 

They sit and chat for a while, about life in London—their stories always make Deirdre so glad she left—and about Arthur and Deirdre's jobs and Aziraphale's bookshop. As always, Deirdre keeps her ears pricked for any hint of how the two of them first encountered her or Arthur. She gets nothing. She does notice Crowley and Aziraphale sitting further apart on the sofa than usual. When Crowley digresses from an anecdote to talk lovingly about his Bentley, Aziraphale adds a smiling but acerbic, “And we all know how important that is, don't we, darling? Sometimes I wonder which of us you love more.”

“Well, angel, I definitely know which one is more reliable.”

“It is a very impressive car,” Deirdre says, trying to smooth things over. “I remember when I was younger, I always wanted an Aston Martin V8. Red. Our neighbours had one. I thought it was the most amazing thing.” Their guests are too busy glaring at one another to react. 

Later on, when Aziraphale is rapturously describing a new sushi restaurant in Mayfair that he describes as “the best he's ever been to,” Crowley puts in, “Actually, it's exactly the same as the twelve thousand other sushi restaurants in London, but about five times the price. Not that you'd notice, since you never seem to pay for anything.” 

Deirdre looks meaningfully at Arthur. _Divorce?_ She asks with her eyebrows, as Aziraphale scowls and moves further down the sofa.

Adam returns after a while, unscathed and with the drone intact. They eat Arthur's spaghetti bolognese for supper, which Aziraphale praises lavishly. “Just as good as the spaghetti in Naples. Do you remember the chef we met there?” He asks Crowley.

“I'll bet you do,”Crowley replies. “Along with just about every other Italian you've ever known.” 

“That's not as many as you have, my dear. But I'm sure the Youngs don't care to hear about that.”

“I don't mind,” Adam says, around a mouthful of garlic bread. “I like Italy.”

“I've got a lovely trifle for dessert.” Deirdre stands up, even though they are barely halfway through their main course. “I'll just go get it now!” 

Crowley and Aziraphale leave soon after supper to go see Anathema and Newton, who are also friends of theirs. Deirdre has mentally scoured that bit of information, to see if it has any bearing on her own relationship with them, but it can't have. Anathema is young and American and has only been in the village for a couple of years, and Deirdre barely knows her. 

Adam extracts from Aziraphale a promise to return in the morning for breakfast, before he and Crowley drive back to London. Deirdre exchanges another glance with Arthur, but Adam is so pleased at the idea, she can't say anything. He goes to sleep with a smile on his face and Dog under his arm, even though Arthur has forbidden pets in bed, and Deirdre goes to help Arthur with the washing up. 

“I do hope they work things out." Deirdre picks up a teatowel. “I'd hate to see them split up.”

“Who?” Arthur replies.

***

Deidre wakes up early, as usual. Leaving Arthur snoring in bed, she pulls on her dressing gown and the pink slippers Adam got her last Christmas and goes to put the kettle on. Glancing out the kitchen window, she sees Crowley's Bentley parked in the drive. 

Strange. It's before seven on a Sunday morning. They didn't specify an exact time for breakfast, she realizes, but she had thought it would be more in the nine or ten o'clock range. She runs a hand through her hair and steps outside, slippers crunching on the gravel as she goes to invite them in. 

Crowley is sitting in the driver's seat, alone. Deirdre wonders whether she ought to let him be, but it's too late. He notices her. She smiles and waves. He leans across the car to open the passenger's side door. 

Inside, "Who Wants to Live Forever?" blares at high volume. Crowley turns it down. 

“Queen. Lovely," Deirdre says. "Have you got a favourite song?” 

“I hate them all,” Crowley replies. “I don't have a choice.” 

Deirdre nods. “I know how that is.” Arthur has sole control over the music in their car. He is currently going through a Pat Benatar phase. “Where's Aziraphale?”

“He wanted to walk.” 

“From the Tadfield Arms?” It's not an unreasonable distance, but it's not a short stroll, and Aziraphale never struck her as an overly athletic person. 

“Don't ask me.” 

Deirdre wouldn't dream of it. They sit quietly for a long moment, until she finally has to say something. It doesn't seem as though Crowley is going to, and she can only rely on Freddie Mercury for so long. “Remind me, how did the two of you meet?” Maybe this will offer some clue to help her unravel how _they_ know each other. 

Crowley hesitates. “It was a...work thing.” 

The bookshop, then. She isn't sure what Crowley does for a living. Arthur says he looks like a drug dealer, but Arthur's image of what drug dealers look like is based solely on American shows like _NCIS: Wherever_. Deirdre prefers more suspenseful English crime programs, like _Broadchurch_. 

“We were friends for a long time first,” Crowley adds. “A really long time.” 

“So were Arthur and I! It got to the point that even our families were asking why we weren't together.” She and Arthur were perfect for each other. Everyone could see it. They certainly _felt_ perfect together, once she finally asked him on a date. It seems strange to think of now that's he's just good old Arthur with his spaghetti bolognese and his Pat Benatar playlists, but there was a time when he could make Deirdre's heart beat faster just by walking into the room. 

Something passes over Crowley's face. “Our families weren't exactly keen,” he says. 

Deirdre frowns. “I'm sorry to hear that.” The familiar opening of “Under Pressure” fills the car. Crowley reaches over and turns off the radio. “Was it...I mean, was it a homophobic thing, or...”

“No. They just hate each other.” Deirdre feels a wave of sympathy for him. The “Romeo and Juliet” thing is all very romantic, she thinks, when you're teenagers, but she can't imagine what it would be like living your whole life dealing with that rubbish. “I just...” Crowley looks out the window. “Forever can be a fucking long time, know what I mean?” 

Deirdre knows all right. She loves Arthur, that's never been in question, but the sheer grind of it, the banality of day after day spent with the same person, with the same peculiarities, having the same disagreements can wear you down. Does wear you down. 

“Sometimes,” she says, “remembering the good days helps with the bad ones.” Sometimes. “And,” she goes on, “My mother always told me that once a person is in a good relationship, it's not about 'my side' or 'your side.' It's 'our side', and it's the two of you against everything else. Including your problems.” 

Crowley looks at her. She shifts. It seems trite now that she hears it aloud. Over-simplistic. She remembers telling her mother that when she said it. _So much for offering advice_ , she thinks. She's about to invite Crowley in for a cup of tea while they wait for Arthur and Adam to wake up and for Aziraphale to arrive, when Crowley says, “Adam's, ah, he's a cracking kid. You're a great mum.” 

“Oh.” Deirdre blinks, surprised. “That's...thank you.” She hesitates. “To tell you the truth, sometimes it doesn't feel like he's ours at all.” She's never told anyone this before, not even Arthur. She doesn't even like to think it, but there it is. “It's so stupid,” she goes on, “but there was another couple at the hospital the night he was born. I could hear her in labour. Sometimes, I wonder...” It's more than wondering. When Adam was about two, she tried to contact the hospital, to have a look at the records if they'd let her, but it had burned down, and all the records were lost. That was for the best. It was a silly idea, probably the belated post-natal depression they talk about on Mumsnet. But whatever the feeling is, it's never completely gone away.

“I was there that night, too,” Crowley says. 

“What, at the hospital?”

“Yeah. Adam's your son. One hundred percent. I'd bet my life on it.” 

Suddenly, it comes rushing into Deirdre's mind. “You're the doctor!” He looked a little different then. His hair was longer, but he was wearing the same sunglasses he always does, because of his eye condition. They didn't know that then, of course. She remembers Arthur commenting on it. “Probably hung over,” he said, and the two of them laughed together, but they were too in love, too enamoured of their new baby Adam to really care. 

Deirdre can't believe it. It's a such a relief to have the mystery solved after all this time that she feels like cheering aloud, until she remembers she was supposed to have known it already. 

Crowley knocks the car into gear. “I'm going to find Aziraphale.” 

“That's a wonderful idea.” Deirdre still can't imagine how he and she went from doctor and patient to friends, but she doesn't care. This is enough, for now. “When can we expect you back?”

“Depends how well it goes.” Crowley's smile verges on a smirk. Deirdre laughs. She remembers mornings like those before Adam was born. A lifetime ago.

“Best of luck.” Deirdre gets out. Crowley peels off, far too fast for the little country lane, but she can't blame him. She turns, about to go back into the house, when a flash of red catches her eye.

It's an Aston Martin V8, the series three with the tall hood scoop, bright red and parked right in front of her house. She can't think how she didn't notice it earlier, unless the Bentley was blocking her view? That must be it.

She looks up and down the empty lane, wondering who the car could possibly belong to. She certainly has never seen anything like it in the village before. There's something white wedged beneath the windshield wiper. Feeling dreadfully nosy, she sidles up, and sees that it's an envelope bearing her own name. 

It can't possibly be. But there are no other Deirdre Youngs in the area. Carefully, she removes the envelope from beneath the wiper and tears it open. Inside is a small white card, in Arthur's handwriting. _For the best wife anyone could ask for. Love, Arthur._ There's no way it can be real. But who else would give her a gift like this? And why? 

_Can we afford it?_ Deirdre wonders. The words have barely formed in her mind when she notices another line on the bottom of the card. _Don't worry, I got a great deal._ That does sound like Arthur. _And don't believe me if I deny it's from me. You know what I'm like._ Maybe she doesn't, not entirely. Maybe, even after all this time, Arthur still has a surprise or two up his sleeve. Well, maybe Deirdre does, too. 

Deirdre wants to take the car for a spin right away, but she's not even dressed. And there's something she has to do first. She goes to the kitchen notepad and writes, “Take Dog for a walk, then watch telly until we come downstairs. Mum. xx” She slips the note under Adam's door, then goes to wake up Arthur in a way she hasn't for many, many years.


End file.
